


Name

by fictionalthoughts



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hints At Reader/The Mandalorian, Mandalorian!Reader - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:27:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalthoughts/pseuds/fictionalthoughts
Summary: req from tumblr: mandalorian!reader walks in on Din talking to the kid and calls her 'mum'*this fic is also at my tumblr @fictional-thoughts
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 180





	Name

The city walls behind you seem to watch you as you walk from them. The metal and concrete sturdy and tall, unwelcoming of such a warrior.

Your cropped and jagged cape catches on the heel of your boot, tall and laced tightly up your calves, met at the brim with old beskar, not as shiny or new as your peers but it’s saved your life dozens of times. The weight of the metal to your skin is evident in your steps, to strangers, it’s a walk of power, of aggression, a secret missionary of war send out to land only in the name of destruction.

But you’re not all that.

There’s parts of your life as a Mandalorian that echo with the cries of a violent and bloody history, but through the darker parts there are times when the name _Mando_ catches up to you — when you feel only one with the metal that seems welded to your skin at times, the helmet melted to your skull — and you only want to feel a tiny bit human.

And as you walk without the ire of strangers judging in the name of fear and ignorance, you feel each muscle, the use of them, your tired bones and shaky hands. The weight of the name _Mandalorian_ has finally stepped on your last bit of courage for the day.

Finally, you’re back at the ship.

The metal door of the _Razor Crest_ grinds to a halt before your mud and blood tracked boots, you inhale the last little grasp of fresh air before returning to the ship.

The mission was simple, an extraction and delivery.

Din had stayed back with the Child, in some form of co-caregivers to the little thing you and Din had decided to travel together, take turns running jobs, collecting coin and moving on through the galaxy. Not rouge, but maybe on the run from the kind of life you and Din know you’d want if he suggested to settle someplace.

And planet hopping through each end of the galaxy was a great way to avoid certain situations.

You swing you long rifle from round your shoulder, the leather strap catches on your armour before you can let it lean to the wall. You sigh and slam the release button on the rifle and the strap falls from the gun. Untangled and inside the Crest, you shed more weapons and as each one finds its proper place in the ship, the weight of them are scraped away from your skin.

Further inside the ship, the sound of Din’s deep modulated voice floats through the air, the words fuzzy and hard to make out through the thick walls of the Crest. You hear the soft cooing of the Child, it’s little voice squeaky in the midst of the running engines and wind picking up outside the Crest. Your heart softnes a bit upon hearing the sounds, something so small and innocent.

You hadn’t expected to become so attached to the little thing, it’s wide, wondering eyes and tiny expressions; he’s developing a small personality and as the days drag past you’re developing some form of parental feelings towards the kid.

Your boots thump against the grated metal of the floor, tiredly you crawl up the ladder into the cockpit, your usual silence follows you.

Din has his back to you, angled into the captains chair, he’s got the kid sitting on the dash, it’s little hands clasped around the shiny silver knob, twisted off from one of the gears.

They take no notice of you, Din’s having a one sided conversation with the kid, something he swears never happens but on this such occasion, upon his distraction and your quiet stillness by the doorway, you catch a few of his words to the kid.

“…stop touching that.” There’s a soft sound from the kid and you hear Din sigh, quiet and deep through his own helmet modulator. You watch him pick up the kid, let him sit on his knee, settled between the plates of beskar.

You think it’s cute that the kid doesn’t listen to any kind of instruction, and Din says he’s taking after you. You only take slight offence to that because it really is true.

It’s as if Din was thinking of you right at that moment. His helmet tilts down to look at the kid, peering past its floppy ears. “You miss her?”

The child coos, blinking up at the Mandalorians shiny helmet. A small whimper sounds from the kid and Din sighs again.

“She’ll be back soon,” his helmet tilts and you know he’s gazing at the Child, maybe even smiling under the mask. “Your mums always late anyways,”

Under the protection of your own helmet, the evident shock written on your face is hidden from anyones sight. You feel your cheeks flush, dark red it matches the blood rushes through your heart, pounding steadily against your ribs.

He’s never called you that before, such a gentle term for someone who’s got a hit list well into the double digits. That word, and the way Din’s tone softened just a bit upon saying it had started to mend that little breakage in your soul, once blackened by the very weight of your title.

The memories of the day melt off you as you step further into the ship, closer to Din and the child. You muster a smile, that warm and flustered feeling is blocking out all the previous thoughts swirling in your mind. That small reminder, Din’s new name for you, used jokingly or not, gives a slight purpose to your name rather than it be blended with the words of killers. You’re confused at how such a thing is affecting you — soft flutters of happiness and an unfurling promise of safely, tucked into contentment and care — it’s unlike your normal emotionless stature, and maybe that’s a good thing.


End file.
